


Knitting Lives Together

by crookedspoon



Series: The Reichenbach Conundrum [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anxiety, Christmas, Episode: s02e01 A Scandal in Belgravia, Gen, Introspection, Knitting, No spoilers for S3, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Canon, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-13
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2017-11-21 01:35:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,525
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/591956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookedspoon/pseuds/crookedspoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three glimpses at the Christmases of Molly Hooper.</p><p>Part 1: Molly spends another Christmas alone at home. (pre-series)<br/>Part 2: Molly isn't alone this time, but things don't go as planned. (ASiB)<br/>Part 3: Molly's ill, but content. Correspondence makes it so. (post-TRF)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stitch, Drop, Catch, Repeat

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Meretricious (and a Happy New Year)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/583995) by [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia). 
  * Inspired by [Sour and Sweet](https://archiveofourown.org/works/642074) by [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia). 
  * Inspired by [The Iceman](https://archiveofourown.org/works/731215) by [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia). 
  * Inspired by [Dust of Snow](https://archiveofourown.org/works/773175) by [Neurotoxia](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neurotoxia/pseuds/Neurotoxia). 



> This was written for 221B_Advent in Dec 2012. The idea was graciously provided by Neurotoxia's [Nights of Christmas Past](http://archiveofourown.org/series/30870) Series (individual stories linked above). I cannot thank her enough for allowing me to shamelessly steal her idea, for providing beta services and for always having an ear for my writing woes.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly spends another Christmas alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1,425 words.

I.

"Yes. Of course, yes. Love you too. Bye," Molly said and hung up.

Unwilling to let go just yet, her hand remained on the receiver and her head against the wall. Another Christmas spent all by herself, without human contact. It was a little frustrating really, to always cover the attendance shifts on holidays. She didn't mind it so much when there was work to do – it was some sort of human contact, after all. Molly knew best how sad this sounded, but it wasn't that bad. (At least dead bodies weren't as intimidating as live ones.)

The frustrating thing was not about having to be on stand-by; rather, it was that she didn't have as much of a claim on holidays as her coworkers did, because she didn't have a "family." Prerequisites were a husband and kids. True, Molly had none of these, but she still had a family. A dwindling family no less, and with the declining health of her mother who knew how many times more they could celebrate under a tree together?

Molly sighed and pushed herself off the wall. This year too she would continue the custom of watching re-runs of whatever heart-achingly sweet kitsch-movie it was this time. Just to get a taste of someone else's Christmas celebration. (She especially adored the ones with the talking dogs.)

When she was younger, she had used to watch those movies with her grandmother. For the occasion they would have made all sorts of cookies, with vanilla or hazelnuts, walnuts or cinnamon, with jam filling or without. Her grandmother would have placed her Christmas plates – the light blue earthenware ones with the children ice-skating or building snowmen – on the green-and-red-and-glitter tablecloth and prepared hot chocolate with a pinch of chili and a dash of cream in mugs that wished you a merry Christmas.

In a way her heart still swelled and overflowed like it did back then, but she wouldn't let it affect her eyes. She was a big girl now and big girls could cope with loneliness. There was a certain procedure to follow:

Step 1) Make Tea

Molly put on some water, went through her array of tea bags – green, black, mint, chamomille, some unidentifiable blend of unknown origin – and settled for something suitably wintery. She filed through her cabinet for the mug she used on such occasions. Ironically, Garfield's grumpy face never failed to cheer her up.

When the steaming water soaked through the leaves, the aroma of lemon grass and anis livened up her kitchen.

Step 2) Draw a Bath

She would love to soak in the tub with a good book, but would have to skip this part of her Get-Well-Recipe. Her pager might go off any second, and the image of jumping out of the bathwater into the winter air wasn't very relaxing. No, she better put it off for another day when she had definite time available to spend on herself and her well-being. Today was rather... not so good. Her preoccupation with work stood in the way of letting go completely.

Step 3) Wear Something Comfy

This one was easy: she picked out the pink fleece jumper that she loved to death – as the well-worn cuff edges could attest. It served her well on all kinds of affairs, especially on days off when de-stressing was top priority and every conducive detail was most welcome. Once thrown on, it enveloped her skin like a membrane she never wanted to shed again. She often found herself grocery shopping or flat cleaning in it. The discoloured spots on the arms and hem were bleach residues. Oh well, it might become a pattern one day.

She twirled in front of the mirror once and returned to the kitchen for her tea.

Step 4) Bake Some Sweets

Another suggestion rendered unfeasible by time constraints and other circumstances. Granted, she often skipped this part even when time was not the issue. She had made this list in her early bachelor days and back then, baking frenzies had calmed her. And won her plus points with her coworkers, who welcomed the leftovers. Well, she called them leftovers, but most often it was the whole batch.

In recent months though, baking had become more of a chore than a pleasure and so she neglected stocking up on ingredients. She had to be in the right mood to bake now. Almost as if in precognition, that mood had swept her up two days ago. And these biscuits she hadn't surrendered to the staff. (Smith and Hughes have been kind of rude to her lately, but that might be the Christmas stress.)

Molly placed her tea on the living room table and went to a cupboard to take out the tupperware dishes she had hidden her biscuits away in. A waft of vanilla, cloves, and cardamom greeted her the moment she opened the lid. She put some of them in a bowl that she placed next to her Advent wreath, or what served as one. It was a glittery structure of silver and blue with alternating painted fir cones and candle bearers. In the middle a small snowman looked back at her with round, polished eyes and a pebble smile.

It was a custom she knew from her grandmother: starting with the fourth, each Sunday before Christmas Eve she had lighted another candle until all four were burning on the last Sunday. Molly had never thought to ask why she did that; as a child, she had explained it with her grandmother's fondness for candles.

Step 5) Get Cozy

This last step sounded unnecessary, but it was easier to follow an order than to allow herself the freedom to relax. Even if that order came written in many flourishes and adorned with hearts and kittie stickers.

With a clear conscience, Molly picked up her wool from the table, tucked her feet under the blanket on the sofa and turned on the telly. A random channel, as it only served as a source of background noise and light (was that Macaulay Culkin?). She concentrated more on the knitting – another thing her grandmother had taught her – than on the watching.

The year she had learned how to knit, Molly had given her mother a scarf for Christmas. A red one with thin white stripes that had been sometimes two, sometimes three rows wide. Only when she had wanted to add tassels had she noticed that the scarf was broader on one end.

Despite the shortcomings of her own presents, those had been the best holidays she could remember. All that had involved her grandmother were her favourites. After her death, when Molly was eight, they hadn't been as cheerful. Her parents lacked the magic to transform Christmas into something extraordinary.

Still, she had enjoyed spending it together with them and even after she had moved out, she had tried to make it every year. When her father had still been alive, her parents would visit her when her job kept her from quitting London. Now, her mother had no means to come – she had no car, refused to use public transportation alone and cabs were too expensive for her, even if Molly said she would pay the bill.

So now she had come full circle. Although she had set out to ignore the loneliness, thinking of her mother, who was also alone in her home, directed her attention to it again and she wondered who else was out there, all by themselves on a day she had only ever associated with togetherness.

There had to be others like her. She couldn't be the only bachelor in the world, after all. What did they do?

The ball of wool rolled to the floor; Molly had tugged the string too hard. Why was she so intent on finishing these mittens at all? There was no one to give them to now. Initially, she had planned to give them to her mother as a copy of her own pink ones with the floral band in the middle – only these were red. And a little too long by now. She hadn't been paying attention.

If she could arrange it, Molly would visit her mother before New Year's. She always tried to, when they couldn’t spend Christmas together. Plenty of time to reduce this mitten to her mother's size.

Looking at it, though, she was reluctant to pull the string. If only she had someone other than her mother to give them to.

Maybe next year, she thought and tugged.


	2. Wound Tight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly was elated and angry and hurt and comforted and confused, all through the space of one evening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4,000 words. 
> 
> I am so sorry for the long wait. I hit some serious roadblocks with this one to the point of wanting to delete the entire thing. But I don't like unfinished business. Don't expect the third part before Christmas.
> 
> Again, this baby wouldn't have been born without the support of my wonderful beta Neurotoxia, who deserves more thanks than I can give her. Thank you for seeing me through this ♥

II.

Molly had spent the whole morning stirring the dust motes in her flat, with Toby at her heels. The accumulating clothes pile on her desk chair went first. She had sorted the items into wash and wearable, ironed the latter batch and stowed it away. She had taken out the rubbish, done the dishes and cleaned the kitchen. She had also scoured the bathroom, but then drawn a bath, so you couldn’t see much of its fresh gleam anymore. In short, she was keeping busy.

There was an expression for this: wound tight.

Also, symptoms: a stomach twisted into knots and a tongue tied off. It had to do with yarn or ropes, something to hold on to – something she lacked.

Instead, she gripped the brush harder and concentrated on calming breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth. From the roots to the tips. Over and over. And sometimes working her way from the tips upward, when her hair had knotted. But always downward strokes. A calming ritual. A lifeline.

The tremor in her hands was not visible, but she could feel it all the same. It was in the strong pounding of her heart and the restricted breath. She could stretch all she wanted, open the window to gulp down mouthfuls of winter air, but there was no freeing her lungs. If she were a smoker, she would know what this would look like: blocked capillaries casting shadows on the x-ray, spotted tissue reminiscent of blue cheese or fungus growth. But anyway, this wasn’t lung cancer.

This was excitement. The mouth-drying, trachea-wrenching type.

A jog might cure this. She might have time for one, but not for the shower she would need afterward – a catlick couldn't rub off that smell.

The cab would arrive in two hours; plenty of time to get ready. If only she could calm down and school her features. She was grinning so hard, her cheek muscles ached, but she just couldn’t stop. Pressing her lips together to stifle it didn’t help any; that grin was a force of its own.

And with reason: it would be her first _real_ Christmas in ages, a Christmas together with anyone other than her family.

What was more, it would be a Christmas she would spend together with Sherlock. If that wasn’t worth being excited about, she didn’t know what was.

Well, they wouldn’t be alone, of course – Sherlock, after all, would never invite her for anything other than doing her job under his supervision, if it weren't for John nudging him about being social. (As though Sherlock didn't know about being social. He knew – he observed how people interacted, filed that information away for eventual use and then deemed it unimportant. Molly just wasn't worth remembering for.)

But that was okay. It would be a Christmas together with Sherlock, all the same. In a way. It would also be a chance to get to know him better, to have a glimpse at what he was like in his own space, rather than in hers.

He might not notice her, but even so, the mere thought of going turned her inside out.

She put her brush down and rubbed the trembling hand on her sweatpants. Time for another cold washcloth. To think she had just stepped out of the bathtub. All those expensive gifts of bathing scents for use only on special occasions and they had done nothing for her nerves!

Stage fright, jitters, performance anxiety. All those words that gave a name to her current condition, but knowing them didn’t help any.

She had even turned off the heating of her flat. She hoped Toby could forgive her, but already her armpits were turning damp. You would think Molly was afraid and not excited. Well, perhaps she was both, in a way: one did not simply meet Sherlock without a hint of awe or curiosity.

She wanted to look her best. That was part of the trouble.

Molly was no good with makeup or anything fancy, at least that’s what she told herself. And Sherlock would be sure to pick at anything he’d notice. Really, he made her feel so small sometimes. She would love to say to hell with him, but even if she managed that, she couldn’t hold it for long, that sentiment. He was frustrating and fascinating and... ah, never mind.

The brushes and pencils and tubes and creams all lay ready for her to use. She had placed them in sight before she had stepped into the bath, so she wouldn’t forget anything.

Molly thought she had watched enough make-over shows to have a vague idea about how this was done, but the tips were sparse and the step-by-step instructions even sparser. She would start with the foundation, rub it in with circling motion, because that was how you did it, right? 

Was there a wrong way to apply make-up? Perhaps. At least, when the end product was telling. She had seen girls and old women whose flaking plaster faces looked like postmodern art or the beginning stages of erythroderma. They enhanced her own apprehension about makeup; she had little confidence in her ability and imagined it would show if she tried.

That was part of the reason. The other was Sherlock: he noticed the smallest changes in manner, dress or style, as he had shown with his comment on her lipstick. 

She herself liked some of it now and then, if only to liven up her face a bit. Working at the lab all day would soon give her the same hue as her "patients" on the slab. (Her mother already complained about her paleness.) Well, that was one way to look at it, anyway. Of course she wouldn’t admit to any other motives behind it.

Enough about insecurities now. Molly wondered if John or Mrs Hudson would comment on her looks – supposing she managed not to recreate one of Picasso’s later works with herself as canvas. They had more tact and could make a person feel appreciated.

She set down the foundation and picked out her concealer. Her eyes could use touching up; weariness often lay heavy around them. Christmas was a busy time which her colleagues rather spent with their families than coming to work. Molly could understand that, of course. Still, she didn’t enjoy covering for them. They didn’t even say thank you anymore, not when it happened year after year.

But today, well, today was different: today she had an invitation herself. This time, declining the _Molly, could you_ s and the _Molly, will you_ s had satisfied her immensely. She still felt a bit smug about it.

This, of course, didn’t mean she wouldn’t jump in anything came up – her plans were no get-out-of-job-free-card, after all, but for once, she wouldn’t need to wait around at home. (Not that she ever had to, but it was easier than being out alone somewhere.)

A deep breath, and then she would move to her eyes. A deep breath was needed, before applying kohl: she hadn’t yet mastered the casual stroke. When her hand quivered like a bowstring with its arrow loosed she was sure to botch it and end up looking like a three-year-old’s crayon doodle. Well, liquid eyeliner would be worse.

Focussing on each task calmed her. Pick up, apply, put down. Repeat with as many items as were necessary. Which in her case wasn’t often, because she didn’t own much.

In the end, worrying had been unnecessary: her face turned out just fine. At least, she hoped so, hoped that others would agree. Especially Sherlock.

Setting mascara, powder, and the rest aside marked her progress: each item gone was another step closer to her goal. She placed the hair-clip where she could see it better and picked up brush and hairspray.

Make-up for Molly was a transformation, or metamorphosis – which was only a matter of word choice come to think of it, depending on the preferred language. (She wondered if etymology was a point of interest for Sherlock. It’s a looking beyond the agreed-upon, after all, a search for true meaning, a digging for the roots. If she could hook him into a conversation with this... she is certain he would either brush it – and her – aside as unimportant or embarrass her for her half-knowledge.)

So, make-up not only altered her appearance, it also changed her view of herself. Temporarily, at least. For one thing it made her _aware_ of herself, as though a red warning light were strapped to her head. She imagined people staring and wondered what she looked like to them. A pompous spinster with rancid tools from the forties; a girl experimenting with the utensils of her mother; a professional... well, companion with less-than-professional make-up; or simply a woman who tries too hard?

It was so much easier to adopt the natural look and leave yourself unchanged; then at least nobody could blame you for lacking skill.

Molly expelled breath through her nose in wry amusement. She usually didn’t indulge her self-consciousness to that extent. It figured that an evening so far removed from safe routine rattled her thoughts like dice in a cup.

With a last flick over her shoulder, her hair was done and she smiled into the mirror. Not necessarily at herself though, given to contemplation as she was right now.

Just as she wanted to unscrew the cap of her nail varnish, Toby scratched and meowed at the door. Poor boy, was so lonely out there by himself. Before he could dig his own hole through it, Molly let him in. As soon as his path was unobstructed, Toby dashed into the middle of the room.

Unscrewing the lid of her nail varnish, she watched as he moved to her bed where her chosen dress lay like the remains of a murder victim or a discarded skin – not her own, though.

“Come here, Toby. Not on the bed.”

He had been sniffing and bobbing his head, inspecting the unidentified black item, as if debating whether or not to jump on it, but turned his head when he heard his name. She wouldn't have gotten out all his hairs on short notice.

It was a pretty dress, exactly what she had wanted: something less mousy than her usual wardrobe. But there were some things off with it. Black, for one, wasn't really her colour – her pale skin needed vibrant colours, hence the luscious red of her nails – and it was a snug fit. Some people liked the soft closeness, but Molly fidgeted every time she wore it and picked at the skirt to make sure it was still there, because if it wasn't so obviously black she would feel naked in it.

Baggy clothes might not be very flattering, but at least they were safe. Not that she thought she had anything to hide, but she didn’t want to appear as if she were flaunting anything.

Molly wondered what Sherlock might say to it. Part of her hoped he would compliment her, tell her how nice she looked in it, but oh, that was just wishful thinking. As if Sherlock possessed enough social skill to think of anything remotely appropriate to say to her.

And anyway, it wasn’t like she was going on a date with him. This was going to be a nice Christmas celebration, so she needed to stop making this about pleasing him.

There. Molly could say no.

***

It was always the same, always. As much as she disliked that phrase, because it meant continuation, something recurring that never changes – it was true today as well.

The magic fell to pieces as she stepped out of her transforming dress and into the morgue. Midnight meant party’s over and this was what happened when you stayed past and your carriage turned back into a pumpkin.

She should have noticed the fluttering in her heart, when she had put on her dress. It had been unease, not excitement. True, Mrs Hudson had called her beautiful, but the opinion that mattered – really mattered to ease her mind – had been Sherlock's. Which hadn't been as favourable as she had hoped.

It was foolish, caring so much for another's opinion. She couldn't help it, but she didn't like it either.

The first time she'd seen it she'd thought it was elegant, but now she worried she had looked like a chandelier with all the crystals she had worn. Oh, she had tried it all on yesterday, but that thought hadn't occurred to her then; she had been too happy about the prospect of spending an evening in the company of – well, anyone, really – _and_ the opportunity to dress herself like a princess, or her version of one.

Now, she felt more like she'd been a lampshade, albeit a fancy one.

Well, it was no use. The hurt and disappointment were there now, but they would go away if she let them. In the meantime, she had a job to focus on. That was something she was good at, after all, focussing on her job. The concentration helped her cope with whatever confused her.

***

Molly stared down at the forensic report she had written and cringed. It was a testament to her own torrent of feelings, her confused hurt and sense of betrayal that was utterly misplaced. To let her emotions get away with her so!

Her eyes caught sight of Sherlock's name, stricken through.

But she was right in wondering exactly _how_ he'd recognised this woman, wasn't she? Just one look. He took one look at the body and not the face! Well, it was bashed in, so it wasn't recognisable, but how do you tell someone from... not their face? 

Was it a freckle, perhaps? The size of her navel? The curving of her toes?

Molly wanted to tear out her hair. How intimate they must have been for Sherlock to notice such a detail. To notice _her_! He usually didn't notice people. Unless it was for a case. So was she a case? No, today was the first time she had landed on Molly's table. An informant, perhaps? But why would she have been naked? Was she a stripper? A prostitute? No, Sherlock wouldn't – would he?

After today, Molly wasn't so sure what to think of Sherlock anymore.

Why couldn't he ever _talk_ to her, and explain things – not in his usual condescending _the details are all there, you just have to_ look-sort of way, but an actual, understanding, human conversation. Molly knew this was impossible and he wouldn't ever behave like that, it just wasn't his way, but sometimes Molly wished— but whenever she was starting to feel good about herself, he just had to come and ruin— no, this wasn't about her, Molly wasn't furious about that.

It was his utter lack of communication about this woman.

This woman, had this woman seen him – without his coat, his scarf, his shirt – naked, too? Would she be able to recognise him from only his body? Had they— no, Molly wouldn't go there. Definitely not. It would have been easier for her to imagine him without any love interest. Oh God, she didn't just— Sherlock— What else could they have done? 

Stop, stop, stop right there. What right had she to know about all this?

Molly groaned and pressed a palm against her forehead. It didn't help that she knew her time would be next week, that this easily upset version of herself might just be the result of PMS, and that under normal circumstances – read: when her hormone levels were balanced – she wouldn't have disclosed her feelings in official documents. It wasn't only embarrassing, it was unprofessional, too. 

And she wouldn't let anyone call her that. Best to re-write this report before she left.

***

Even as Molly hung up her lab coat and turned off the light, she couldn't stop thinking about it. She tried imagining Sherlock with this other woman, but now that her swirling emotions were dying down, she felt drained. Her thoughts kept circling back to the scene in the morgue, when he had first seen this woman on the slab.

She had been too focused on her own shock before, but now she was beginning to see more clearly. Guilt was creeping in, too. Thank goodness she hadn't actually demanded he tell her about this woman.

This was mortifying. Why had she been so obsessed with her own feelings, never once thinking about what Sherlock must be going through? If he knew this woman, if he – if he cared for for her, he must be grieving right now. Why hadn't she seen this before?

God, Molly was so dense and egocentric. It made her ill. 

She should have offered her help – an ear, a shoulder, anything except demands, even if they hadn't been voiced. Not that Sherlock would have accepted, but Molly would have done something more appropriate. And maybe Sherlock would even have acknowledged the gesture for what it was: an extended hand.

Her cell phone beeped as she neared the exit. It was her cousin wishing her a _~*Merry Christmas*~_. Oh, right. She nearly forgot. She needed to get back into a positive frame of mind before visiting her mother tomorrow.

"Hi, Molly."

Her eyes shot up to see Detective Inspector Lestrade walking toward her. There was something distracted about him. 

“Oh, Detective Inspector. Hi... uhm. Are you here for the body, too?” she asked and her cheeks flushed again.

But he wasn't, he was just looking for company to fill the rest of the evening. It had ended so abruptly, and he still had a couple of hours to fill before the obligations of job and family closed in around him.

And surprisingly, he asked for her company.

***

"Thank you for the lovely evening, Detective Ins— Greg, I mean." Molly offered him a lopsided grin in apology for the slip-up. It took some getting used to, calling him that.

During work – and mostly outside of it, too – Molly preferred to call people by their ranks and titles or opted for the simple "you;" that also felt safe. Using names, especially first names, had something intimate, something too close and personal. Also something powerful: names called attention to themselves and that attention was awkward when she wasn't used to a person. Like pushing boundaries, like stepping into someone’s house unasked and raiding the fridge.

"No, that's fine. I should be thanking you, _Doctor_ Hooper. It was good to have some company tonight," Greg said. His smile was genuine, but also strained, his eyes a little pinched. As though he wanted to say more, but couldn’t.

"Yes." Molly tucked her hair behind her ear and looked at the ground in front of his feet. "It was."

And she really thought so. He had helped her take her mind off of – well, everything that had happened earlier and she felt better now.

She, on the other hand, hadn't been able to divert him entirely. Or maybe she had, but now that their evening out together was coming to an end, he remembered where he had to be.

They had carefully avoided the topic of his wife all night. Molly had been so glad to hear that they were back together – she didn't know his wife, but she might have seen her a couple of times (she wasn't sure; they had never been introduced). A pretty woman, although her presence had intimidated Molly a little. Self-assured people or those who acted that way usually did.

In retrospect, her own delight about the news might have been misplaced. She never thought about whether couples worked or not, she just assumed they did. As if being together was all it took for bliss to grow between them. Maybe it was her own dream of a perfect romance getting in the way, a romance she believed possible for other people. But apparently, she wasn't the only one exempt from it. Sherlock had to go and destroy her illusion and – what was worse – Greg's fragile happiness, or what she had presumed to be happiness. She could now see that a part of it had been an act, his cheerful face and airy voice, an exaggeration for the benefit of everyone around him, but also for himself.

"Is everything all right?"

Molly's head jerked up. Two concerned eyes met hers. Worry pronounced the lines around them, drawing his pale face tight. He looked somewhat ill and sad.

She couldn't add to his plate. She had been this distracted all evening; first Sherlock, then Sherlock again and this woman, then imagining how Greg must worry about his marriage and, because of that, about his daughters; what John’s bristling girlfriend – Jeanette? Another person who would have made her shrink if Sherlock hadn’t done so before – thought of them; what the connection was between Sherlock and...

Molly wrenched her thoughts away before she entered another spiraling chain. 

"Y-yes. Of course. I'm fine," she managed to say, although convincing sounded different. What should she do? She couldn't invite him inside. It was late and he would leave for Dorset in the morning or so he had said, so she shouldn't keep him much longer. And also, was it even proper to invite a married man inside, when they were just getting to know each other? What kind of message would that send? "I'm – sorry. I'm tired, I guess."

Greg's eyes narrowed and then his shoulders sagged. "There’s no need hiding anything from a copper," he said. "We’re good listeners, you know?"

Saying this, he had taken a step toward her, an instinctive, imploring gesture perhaps, meant to convey earnestness, but just as instinctively, Molly had taken a step back. Her shoulder blades touched the door behind her.

"Oh. Oh, no. It isn’t anything like that. I've just been thinking. About today. I just— So much has happened. I mean, don't you think so?”

He made no comment to that, only looked to the side. Perhaps it had been the wrong thing to say. And now what? She should maybe take this chance to rid them of their awkwardness.

"Well, I better go in now. Toby – that is, my cat must be wondering where I am. Thank you for walking me home."

Greg only shook his head and smiled, somewhat sadly. "See it as part of my job, if you want. Couldn't have let you walk alone, not when I can imagine what's out there."

“Thank you, anyway. And good night.” Without waiting for a reply, Molly slipped through the front door and pressed her back against it, as though blocking it in case he might follow. A ridiculous notion.

Her heart was racing. Why was it doing that? Was it embarrassment, fear, or shame? The latter, most likely. Stupid Molly. Hadn’t she noticed that it was Greg who had needed someone to listen? They may have been talking all evening, but it had been meaningless getting-to-know-each-other-type small-talk you might exchange with any colleague; they had been skirting the important issues. Acting cheerful. Comforting each other, but also themselves.

Maybe she should have invited him inside, after all. And then? Would they have been able to let loose and talk about the things that were bothering them? Molly doubted it. They still barely knew each other. She couldn’t have told him about Sherlock and that woman on her table and her confused jealousy if he had asked, for example. That needed time.

Still, tonight was a beginning. She hoped it was, anyway. She would like to do that again, go out with someone who does not see her as a freak for working in the morgue. Go out on a strictly friendly basis, that was.

She could propose to do that again, when she saw him next. That would ease her guilt about leaving him like that. Yes, she could do that. As soon as possible. It was something to look forward to.


	3. Darning the Holes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Molly is ill, but it's not so bad. She is content. Correspondence makes it so.

III.

Molly's driving through winding, orange-glowing tunnels, talking to old school friends and people she has never known, but feels she should although their presence is uncomfortable, where did they come from anyway, and she'd liked to leave. But when she does, she finds herself spooning plum pudding and sipping jasmine tea in her mother's living room while the doilies alight and she watches the fire grow as if it's the most common thing in the world, until she notices it isn't. She stands up and backs away, but her movements are so slow.

As usual, her calm, efficient mother comes to the rescue: pouring water straight from the boiling kettle and sprinkling leaves into the flames, mint, rooibos, blackberry, spices, too. 

Before Molly could ask why she does that, a buzzing transports her elsewhere. She’s disoriented, supine, and realises she’s abed, fighting the urge to check the door and what surprises could be waiting behind it.

She breathes.

Opening doors can be exciting, but a bit terrifying too, if you don't know who it is and aren't expecting anyone, or anything. There are visitors you'd gladly welcome in no matter the state of your flat, and others you can do without, and those that disappoint you, like the mailman asking would you take these please, madam, your neighbours aren’t in and the parcels don’t fit into their letter boxes. 

Around holidays, Molly's only home for Toby to avoid feeling like a minor post office branch. The worst is when it's not for her, not the parcel and not the conversation she could have had with the postman. It leaves her feeling like a ghost or a robot, and internet shopping is of no help either.

Molly would be glad about a visitor right about now, although her head hurts and her joints are stuffed with cotton and every movement takes about thirty times longer than usual. Her eyes are stinging, and when she brushes heavy bangs out of them, her hand skids over her forehead like on a water slide. She groans. No, no visitors then. She would feel awful if she infected them.

Her last illness was a long time ago and she keeps forgetting how uncomfortable it is, how utterly miserable. She also keeps forgetting to stockpile medicine, although how she can work in a hospital and forget antipyretic is beyond her.

Automatically, she reaches for the mug on the nightstand and sits up a bit to take a sip. Except the nightstand is on the wrong side.

Oh, Molly thinks as though she found her answer. 

That’s not all. Her comforter smells of a softener she doesn't use, but knows anyway, and there's a window to the bed’s right which isn't there in Molly's flat. That's right. She's at her mother's home – maybe she has got something. Other than tea, that is. Her mother believes less in chemicals than in the self-healing abilities of the human body, but Molly's hopes aren't easily crushed. And tea's always a good start.

It should be embarrassing to be out of commission during Christmas holidays, but Molly feels strangely content. Even ill and stranded at her mother's as she is, this Christmas is a step up from last. She has made it all the way up here without incident, and everything else sorted itself out beforehand: Marian is looking after Toby, Smith and Leila would cover her shifts between the holidays, and all her presents have been delivered.

Or so she expects.

She delivered most of them in person, so no mailman would have to drop them at a neighbour's flat, or risk damaging the wrapping paper. They were nothing fancy. Just bits and pieces from the shoeboxes she keeps stored away at the bottom of her living room cupboard. Things she had crafted and thought might make a nice gift for this or that acquaintance, like the wedding album she put together for Hughes and his family, or the shell-adorned picture frames for her mother's latest sea holiday, or the turquoise earrings she gave Marian as a little thank you for always looking after Toby on short notice. 

In Winter, she prefers to pick out things from her sheep-box, so called because of the sheep stickers that adorn it and the round woolly something that Molly had drawn and pasted on top of it. In it, she keeps her hand-knitted endeavours: practical things like mittens and caps and socks and scarves, all nice and warm, but also flowers and dolls and tiny handbags. Baby socks are especially popular with the mommies she knows. She is sometimes asked if she can do bigger things like jumpers or even dresses for girls, but Molly only creates them on commission. Styles go out of fashion so fast.

One of the things she pulled out was a green-and-grey jumper she initially wanted to give John for Christmas. But they rarely ran into each other of late. When he still lived at Baker Street, Molly saw him now and again when she popped in to say hello to Mrs Hudson. It was awkward every time and Molly never knew where to look or what to say, because her guilty conscience might betray her any second. Molly isn't a good liar, not a bit, and with all the training John had from Sherlock, he must be seeing right through her.

So in a way, she wanted to appease her conscience by giving him a jumper. But of course he had other plans. 

"John Watson?" Mrs Hudson asked. "No, dear, I'm sorry. He's with his family this Christmas, told me so himself. Yesterday, in fact. He was here to wish me Merry Christmas. Such a nice man, but so sad. He's not the same after Sherlock passed, you know."

"Oh, that's a pity." Molly's face dropped, and she kept it there. What had she been expecting? That everyone would just line up to spend the holidays with her? "I had hoped we could have got together for tea over Christmas. You and me and John. And maybe Greg— I mean, Detective Inspector Lestrade, too. You know, a bit like last year, only ending on a nicer note."

"Oh, what a lovely idea. I would have enjoyed a nice cuppa with you sweet young things. But I am gone over Christmas myself. To my sister's, she has invited me. I hope it's going to be nice enough. We haven't seen each other in years, so you’d suppose I’d be glad to, but truth is, we haven't always been on the best of terms. You know how sisters are."

Molly didn't, but she nodded anyway. 

That was her first and last surprise visit at the end of the year. Everyone else she had gifts to give was her colleague and could catch it during lunch break or changeover.

All safe for one. She had to make a special appointment for this one. 

Her own, somewhat disheveled, reflection was staring back at her from the polished door. Shifting the bowl she was holding, Molly straightened her hair a bit. She felt a little out of place among these groomed and suited people flitting through the hallways, but she certainly wasn't the only supplicant who couldn't afford a fancy dress. 

The door opened and a pretty woman held it for Molly. Their gazes touched only briefly, the woman looked down at her smartphone again.

"Thank you for waiting. Mr. Holmes will see you now."

"Thank you," Molly said and shuffled inside.

Mr Holmes stood in greeting, but did not extend a hand, as hers were occupied.

"Miss Hooper, a pleasure to see you. What can I do for you?"

"Hello. Likewise, um. Thank you for seeing me. I'm... I’m here because I wanted to ask you– you see, I have this present and, it's for Sherlock, but I can't send it to him, because I don't have his address. Obviously. So, could you– that is, if you wouldn't mind, could you write it down for me? I’m leaving for my mother’s next week and wanted to send this before I pack."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that." He spread his hands and sat back down on his big office chair.

"Oh. I'm sorry, I just thought it would be a nice gesture. I mean, doesn't Sherlock feel alone wherever he is? None of his friends know he's still alive after all, so he won't hear from them, and I thought..."

" _You_ know, Miss Hooper."

"I'm not– he doesn't–" Molly bit her tongue, she'd only stumble over it more if she left it flapping. Agitation did that. "Consider me his friend," she finished weakly.

"I'm sure he does. You see, he trusts you. You helped him out in a tight spot."

"I..." Molly didn't want to argue with this man. He is her only connection to Sherlock. And he informed her that Sherlock saw her as a friend. He should know. They're brothers, after all. 

Molly had to sit down. But before, she had to place her present and the bowl on his desk. Carefully. She was afraid to knock over the pencil holders or scratch the wood. It looked expensive. Probably was.

Mycroft peered down his nose at the bowl and his eyebrows lifted. "Is this a bribe?"

"This? Ah no, I'm– I didn't mean to. This is caramel pudding. My grandmother's recipe. Just a way to say thank you, you see. Not a bribe at all. Or, would it work better if it were?"

Mycroft chuckled and his eyes softened. "Why don't you leave your present here and I'll see to it that it reaches Sherlock on time?"

"You would? Oh, thank you so much! But are you sure, about leaving only the present, I mean. Don't you want me to leave the pudding here, too? It’s meant for you, after all. Or for anyone, really, if you don’t want it."

Molly smiles at the memory. It was nice of Sherlock's brother to do that. Hopefully, Sherlock got it all right. She would love to see the look on his face when he receives it, and when he opens it, but only if he didn't know she were there so he couldn't ridicule her for the sentiment, or fake his reaction. She can imagine how he'd take it out of the paper, how he'd feel the fabric and deduce it right away, and she can imagine how it would look on him, casually slung around his neck, emerald green enhancing the blue of his eyes.

Molly hopes he likes it. She had a lot of fun knitting the scarf. Touching it always made her happy and warm and excited, too. It was higher quality wool than she normally uses, with alpaca and silk, because she knew Sherlock would know, and she felt the difference. So soft and knit itself like a dream.

"Molly?" her mother asks, after a knock.

"Yes, mum?"

"A postcard arrived for you in the mail today. I only saw it now and thought you might want it. I didn't know you had friends on the continent."

"A postcard? Who would send me one, and here, of all places? I know I mentioned I would be spending Christmas with you, but I didn't think anyone knew where you lived."

"You don't have to look so guilty about it."

"I'm sorry."

"Molly..."

"I'm s— I can't _not_ apologise if you use that tone..."

"Good girl," her mother says and hands Molly the postcard. "Do you want another cup?"

"Yes, thank you."

On the postcard was a big bridge with statues on the railings on either side leading to a beautiful city. The top right corner read _Praha_. Molly frowned. She didn't know anyone from the Czech Republic.

She turned it, and read: 

_Dear Molly,_   
_thank you for your gift._   
_It is much appreciated._   
_Merry Christmas._   
_W. Braun_

Molly gasped. This note read like poetry to her. She didn't need to analyse the name, the spidery handwriting, or the stationery used, to know who sent this. She would recognise that stilted language anywhere. Only Sherlock could sound so awkward on paper, and only when he was trying to be polite.

So her present did reach him. She was glad. And even gladder that he remembered her and took the time to write a Thank You note. Really, a Thank You note from Sherlock Holmes. What a surprising gift! She'd never have expected that.

Yes, Molly thinks as she leans back into her pillow, unable to take her eyes off the script. This Christmas is certainly a good one.


End file.
